Pushing Up Daisies
by The Quoi
Summary: Death was not at all what he wanted or suspected. R
1. Prologue

_A/N: This is a sort of comedy, but not a crackfic. Remember that it's supposed to sound a bit ridiculous as you read it, and it's not supposed to have nice flow or be very eloquent. If there are things such as repeated words, it's for comedic effect and not because my thesaurus cheated on me and is now living with some puffed up bloke named Dictionary who thinks he's better than everyone else because he can _define_ things... Well la di da... It doesn't matter. I've got Encyclopedia now, and he doesn't leave me alone at night... Go frolicking off with your big reference book... What do I care?... Ahem. Remember that this is just for fun! I may continue it, I probably will considering it leaves you at a cliffhanger. Enjoy reading it!_

... Defining things.. Pah.

The first thing he knew was that it was hot. Very hot.

Whatever it was, it was scalding, and it had the nerve to bear down on his sweating body from what he assumed was an upward position. This came to the second conclusion that his fuzzy mind slowly processed; he didn't like it very much. A stray thought came into his head that suggested he get up and move. His finger twitched, and he decided he did not like moving very much, and that it was much more convenient to stay lying on whatever it was he happened to be lying on. In his imagination, he pictured himself glowering at the notion, who was depicted as a short, cowering individual. Some sluggish fact floated along lazily that told him he was very good at glowering, and was a glower-y sort of person. He supposed he agreed with it, and continued to the next dilemma; why was he lying prone on some surface beneath some hellish heat? His mind went blank. He gave this question up as a bad job and decided to explore his other senses for a while.

His nose, or what he assumed was his nose, twitched. He could smell something rather salty, and something rather sour. His ears were suddenly called upon to do some hearing, and they jumped to life like construction workers caught drinking. He heard annoying squawks and a whooshy sort of noise that re-occured every six seconds or so.

Here's how it went;

_WhoooooOOOOOOOOSSHHHHHhhhh.... ...._

He was at a complete loss as to what this noise could possibly be, and decided to think about it later. He moved on to touch; and forced his muscles to move his body a pinch. He ended up squirming slightly and imitating a dying worm. He squirmed once more. Beneath him was very rough, like a thousand itchy things were holding his form. For a moment, he lay completely motionless to see if the surface reacted in any sort of way. He held his breath in anticipation, and realized that there was such thing as air. At this point in time, his mind was only working on a very small, pathetic level so he forgot immediately about the possible threat of possibly displeased surfaces.

To him, air was fascinating. It coasted in and out so smoothly into his waiting mouth and throat. Apparently the air loved him back, because it kept stroking and caressing his body all around, which he decided that he _did_ like.

The last sense for him to explore was his sight. At first when he attempted to open his eyes, they were completely stuck shut. A few moments of struggling ensued before one eye popped open like a stubborn pickle jar.

It was bright, blindingly bright.

He shut it again, and gave himself a few moments of recuperation before attempting to open it again. This time, he opened it more slowly, letting the eye adjust to the sudden burst of extreme light. Finally, he was able to look around and he gave a small whoop of excitement, and found he had a voice.

Blue was all he saw, flawless pure blue with a large bright platinum yellow circle that sat like a pimple on the perfect azure face. He pried his other eye open and stared with them both at this amazing event, this yellowish thing on this giant blue thing. He stared at it in wonder for what felt like hours before suddenly, something dark obstructed his view.

He let out a small sound of dismay and the dark blob slowly came into focus.

He was staring at two twin blue things, as bright and as perfect as the large one he had been gazing at seconds before. The top of the dark blob was covered in something long and white, as was all around a smiling mouth. The long white thing tickled his skin lightly, and a long crooked nose came into few. Perched on top of them were a pair of half-moon spectacles.

Something told him that this was a fellow man, and that he had once known him.

Dumbledore grinned.

"Hello, Tom."


	2. Post Mortem Lessons

_A/N: This is the second chapter. This a/n is redundant._

He stared. He gaped. He blinked in disbelief. His skin itched from the strange scratchy surface. He spluttered unintelligibly and managed out the words "Dumbledore", "Dead" and "Bacon", causing the infernal old man to burst into warm laughter.

"Yes", he said gently, perching on his haunches and clasping his shoulder firmly, "We are dead."

Within seconds everything that was his being came flooding back to him, and all he could think of was the breakfast he'd never got to finish before he'd felt the last vestiges of his Horcrux leave him.  
"But why..." he motioned to Dumbledore's ridiculously colourful Hawaiian shirt and then pulled himself frantically into a seated position and peered around at his surroundings.

The entire time he had been lying comfortably upon beautiful white sand, and ahead of him was nothing but turquoise ocean and azure sky. It suddenly clicked that the whooshy sound he had heard earlier had been the waves lapping upon the perfect shore. Voldemort cleared his throat and said hoarsely, "If this is hell, then I wonder what heaven looks like."

Dumbledore broke into peals of laughter, and then joined him sitting in the sand.

"Why am I here, you ask? Well, because I want to be. That's right! I waited for Harry, and I then waited for you. Why did I wait for you? To do what I should have done when you were a child."

"This is a very strange dream, I must say" Voldemort stated, ignoring Dumbledore completely.

"No, no, no!", Dumbledore laughed, "This is no dream, my boy."

"Oh, it _is_ a dream. Most certainly."

"Er-" Dumbledore attempted.

"A very strange elaborate dream-"

"Ah, but-" Dumbledore attempted once again.

"-that doesn't make much sense but has been brought on by the stress I have been feeling as of late-"

"Uh, noo-" Dumbledore raised his finger and then lowered it again.

"-due to my taking over the world and tracking Potter and my Horcruxes" Voldemort finished calmly, doing his best to completely ignore his bearded companion.

"Look, Tom, we're _dead._ Very, very, very _dead_. Very, very, very _not living._ Finito. Caput. Bugs on a windshield", said Dumbledore.

"How do I know you're lying?", Voldemort asked haughtily.

"Because of _this_" Dumbledore whispered dramatically and looked deeply into the red eyes of the Dark Lord that had killed so many.

It wasn't certain what Voldemort saw in the dephs of Dumbledore's shining blue eyes, but it is indeed safe to say that whatever he did see was ethereal, convincing and astonishingly fancy. It simply _must_ have been that way, as after a few seconds of mindless staring, Voldemort's mouth hung agape and his eyes were as wide and round as pie dishes. All he could say were unrelated sounds of multipurpose gibberish that were neither brilliant nor informative, but they did effectively indicate his feelings on the sure matter of his death. Dumbledore cautiously poked the pale shoulder of his colleague to evaluate his mental state, and found it frightningly frail. This was to be expected though, so he decided to illuminate the poor man on his reason for exsisting where he was.

"Er, right. So I'm here because your soul needs some serious repairing. Honestly, seven pieces? What were you thinking... Anyway. I'm here to sort of... Re-teach you to be a good person so that your soul may be saved and so that you can maybe have another chance at life, you know? So I suppose they're kind of like... Life-lessons. Well, they can't exactly be called 'life-lessons', now could they?"

"Dead" Voldemort repeated and twitched.

"Yes, quite dead, dead as a doornail- How about we call them..."

"As a doornail" Voldemort repeated, and twitched.

"Yes, we're pushing up daisies, the both of us- how about we call them... 'Tidbits of Important Information that One Should Remember Always'?"

"Daisies" Voldemort muttered, and shook.

"Yes, yes" said Dumbledore patiently, "We've kicked the bucket. Do you like that name?"

"S'too long" Voldemort commented monotonously, "_Kicked the bucket...."  
_  
"Oh, alright. How about... 'Post-Mortem Lessons'?"

Voldemort jerked his head in a vaguely vertical direction, and Dumbledore was forced to take it as an affirmative. Dumbledore smiled and slapped his thighs approvingly. Not wanting to waste any time, he lifted himself from the warm sand, stretched and peered heroically into the distance for a moment before continuing in a voice reminiscent of Superman.

"Well, my friend! We must get started, the quicker you learn, the better!" Dumbledore turned back to his companion, continuing, "The first things first, you've got to..." he trailed off as he observed his companion, who was staring forewards with the stony glazed gaze of a deer in headlights, twitching every few seconds.

"Uh... Perhaps a brandy is in order first" Dumbledore corrected.

_A/N: Review mofos._


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